


Sexual Healing

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Healing Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 08:04:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John just needs a little sorting out. Lestrade thinks he can help. That's what friends are for, isn't it?<br/>Takes place during S1, and in a slight AU where Lestrade is gay, and Sherlock is not "the virgin" of S2.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sexual Healing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marysutherland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marysutherland/gifts), [fengirl88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/gifts), [Small_Hobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> _The title is because Martin Freeman likes Marvin Gaye--and so I think John does too.  
>  This is for marysutherland‚ because I borrowed her version of Sid Paget, for whom I've developed an unhealthy fondness. And it's also for fengirl88 and thimpressionist and Small_Hobbit, because they like J/L, and should have more of that lovely pair. Thank you so much to thimpressionist, who suggested an essential piece of wisdom about the scars and L and J's exchange. _

A bit awkward at first, really. Drinks and dinner with Sherlock's new flatmate. But the bloke looked a little desperate--at the end of his rope. So Lestrade thought it was only the right thing to do to take him out for the evening. John had showed up at the Yard at the end of the day, just as Lestrade was handing things over to D.I. Cartwright on the night shift, searching for his keys and mobile in the mass of papers and half-empty coffee cups on his desk.

"Oh, um. Hi, Greg. Getting ready to leave, then?"

"Yeah, time to close up the factory. Wasn't expecting you, John." Lestrade's scowl relaxed into a smile and he waved the doctor into his chaotic office. "Something you need?"

"Sherlock sent me for the soil samples. You said he could examine them in a day or two and of course, he thinks that means _now_ . . ."

Sherlock still had the doc doing random errands, did he? Lestrade had wondered what that relationship was going to turn into from the first time he saw Dr. Watson at 221B, gripping his cane, looking lost and wide-eyed with Sherlock rattling on, his usual imperious, narcissistic self . . . Poor bloke. What a pain in the arse to be Sherlock's dogsbody. Lestrade knew that feeling from recent experience.

"Yeah. I've got three samples he can take a look at," said Lestrade, scooping up the neatly labeled plastic bags from a chair in the corner of the office and dropping them into John's hand. "That all?"

John shifted awkwardly. He was favoring that bad leg again. The wound seemed to come and go a lot lately. Maybe it depended on his stress level or something. Lestrade noted a day or so of stubble on John's usually clean-shaven cheek and a slight droop in his left eye too--probably simple exhaustion. They'd only just finished up with Dimmock's Chinese hairpin case--pretty physically demanding, that one. John really ought to take a few days off and just relax. Ought to get between the sheets with that pretty girlfriend. Or at least Lestrade assumed she was his girlfriend.

"Yes--uh, I think that's all. I'll just be going then. Unless . . . you don't fancy a drink or something, do you?" John was trying to seem offhand, casual, as if he hadn't come here expressly to find a normal person to eat dinner with for a change, Lestrade surmised. "You probably have someplace to go now, so . . . "

"Uh, well . . ." Lestrade tried to think of an excuse, but drew a blank. He'd been looking forward to getting out of his work clothes and into a hot shower and then maybe into a bottle of whisky and a bit of football on telly. But it was a crisp early fall evening, and he _was_ hungry, so against his better judgment, he said, "Sure. I'm starving. Let's just go down the street to The Feathers. We can sit outside, and have a chicken curry." He picked up his jacket and led the way to the lift.

Over dinner, Lestrade couldn't help doing a little detective work. He'd been curious about whether John was really going to stick it out with Sherlock, and it seemed that was a real possibility-- even after the incident with the gun and the cabbie, _which Lestrade technically knew nothing about_ , and the bizarre near-death experience with the Chinese mob. Well, the man was no coward, that much was true.

Lestrade tried to gauge whether John and Sherlock had fallen into bed together-- or, knowing Sherlock's usual modus operandi--fallen into a mad fuckfest in some carpark near a crime scene. An event Sherlock would immediately delete and pretend never happened. Lestrade didn't think they'd got that far yet, though. John didn't look like he'd been shagged in months, in fact. But knowing Sherlock, it wouldn't be long before he'd have the doctor begging for it. The genius always liked to pretend he had no interest, then pounce, didn't he?

John Watson was clearly an exceptional man--no doubt a fine doctor and soldier as well. But Lestrade got the feeling John was still at loose ends--didn't necessarily _know_ what an exceptional man he was. Lestrade puzzled over the way John held himself so rigid, so stiff most of the time. Even now, when they'd both had a couple of pints, and he should have been relaxed---he still seemed to be pulling the reins tight, not letting himself stand down.

While John headed in to the loo, Lestrade tried to figure it out. What was making the man so tense? It seemed both physical and mental. There was awkwardness in his body--especially the shoulder that he seemed always moving away from Lestrade. And Lestrade had never seen John when he wasn't covering himself up with button-downs and jumpers that were a little too big or too fuzzy--a far cry from his flatmate's chic suits and tight silk shirts. Well, God knows Lestrade himself was no GQ model, so he'd no room to criticize.

And maybe the lumpy clothes meant nothing except that he hadn't been shopping in awhile.

When the doctor returned to the table, Lestrade looked him over carefully, noting his hair--which looked quite soft and--well, touchable--almost boyish in the cut and colour, if it hadn't been for the streaks of grey visible when the light hit just right. John Watson wasn't what Mrs Hudson would call a matinee idol, but he was sort of lovely in his own way. Those mischievous eyes especially. Lestrade had a weakness for eyes like that. Best not to look too long, then. There was no way Lestrade was going to make a play for John, when Sherlock was clearly smitten with him--judging from the simple fact that it had been over two weeks and he hadn't yet tossed the doctor out of the flat or poisoned him with one of those infernal experiments.

God in heaven, Sherlock was a lot of work. Too much for Lestrade. They'd had their bit of sweaty rutting and sloppy blowjobs early on, but Lestrade just couldn't put up with the drama. Hardly anyone could.

Lestrade smiled as he remembered Sherlock's affair with that odd little weasel, the videographer Sid Paget. There was a match made in hell. Some things did not belong in extreme closeup on YouTube, in Lestrade's opinion. Then there was the whole Sally Donovan disaster. Sherlock was just a Class A prick in that case, and Lestrade didn't blame Sally a bit for hating him. Basically, Sherlock Holmes was an erotic roller coaster, and Lestrade just wanted a simple rowboat, thank you very much. Someone quiet, reliable, steady--someone to take out on a peaceful lake on a summer afternoon. Someone like John . . . but _not John_ , obviously. God, he'd better get that right out of his mind, before . . .

Lestrade wondered if he should at least warn John to watch out for Sherlock and his sexual hijinks before they got irrevocably intertwined. But that would presume Lestrade knew what was coming, and Sherlock was completely unpredictable. No, he couldn't rightly warn John, but he could try to watch out for him, and pick up the pieces when the inevitable sexual whirlwind and bloody a ftermath happened. Yes, he could stand by and pick up the pieces--that was the right thing to do.

After another pint and a fiery discussion of football, what the Olympics would do to the traffic, and where to get the best chips in Manchester, Lestrade let the Guinness turn his thoughts where he knew damn well they shouldn't go. He decided he knew just how to get John Watson to feel more at ease in his own skin.

The voice of Reason inside Lestrade's head kept silent. It was late--long past Reason's bedtime.

As they walked down the almost empty street, heading towards St. James Park station, Lestrade took a deep breath and pulled John into an open doorway, then through a hidden vestibule into a small, abandoned shop--gutted, dark, awaiting renovation. No people. No CCTV.

Silently Lestrade pushed John up against the cracked plaster wall. There was a slight chill coming on now, which brought a pleasant coolness to his cheeks, even as the temperature of the rest of his body was rising.

John didn't speak, didn't question the move out loud, but his eyes darted back and forth across Lestrade's face. _What's happening?_ He licked his lips. Lestrade took note of the shiny pink tip of John's tongue, moving from side to side across the mouth Lestrade had been staring at half the night. The Inspector let a sigh of anticipation escape his lips. A blush coloured John's cheeks.

Lestrade took firm hold of the doctor's wrists. Making sure to get his grip under the sleeves of that damned jumper, Lestrade pinned John's arms high above his head, and held his gaze steady, hoping he could convey what he wanted without any words.

John's first reaction was an involuntary nervous laugh. He mouthed the words, but didn't say them aloud, "What the hell?" Lestrade leaned closer, his body in a long line parallel to John's, no more than two inches away, his face even closer. Then he stopped.

This was a lesson after all, not a seduction or a case of overpowering his object of desire. John Watson needed to learn to stop worrying about his body, his mind, all those wounds. Needed to wipe it all away and give in to the need Lestrade sensed  was there. Lestrade wanted the doctor to let himself feel again, and more than that, let himself make demands instead of fulfilling Sherlock's or his therapist's or even Lestrade's.

Though he felt John's body tense with resistance now, Lestrade knew he could make it happen. It was about patience. And patience was one of his only virtues.

Lestrade kept his body just that two inches away for an eternity. John wriggled his wrists in Lestrade's grip--a token protest--but kept his eyes fixed on Lestrade's, which were black and deep now. The policeman moved his thumb against John's palm, let his hot breath--curry and Guinness--fill John's nostrils, which flared as his chest began to rise and fall more quickly.

John licked his lips again, and half closed his eyes, moving his face closer to Lestrade's, so that his stubbly chin tickled Lestrade's cheek, begging the Inspector to take a kiss, godammit.

John's breathing was irregular, desperate. It took all Lestrade's self-control to resist running his tongue along that faint tan line at John's collar. _Mmmm. Wouldn't that taste sweet?_ _Would John's fine, soft beard tickle his tongue?_ Lestrade moved backward a half step. His cock was stiffening, threatening to press into John's groin of its own accord--it had been known to happen. But this was about John making the demands, taking things into his own control. God knows he'd have to do that if he hoped to survive with Sherlock, so he needed to learn to do it now.

John rasped, "Greg . . .?"

"What do you want, John?" Lestrade made it clear there was a world of possibility in the question.

"I . . . I don't know . . . whatever you want. I don't know . . ."

Lestrade gave in to his own desire for a moment and scraped his teeth along the shell of John's ear. "Yes, you do," he breathed.

John lurched forward and kissed Lestrade. Hard, rough, needy. Biting his lips and wresting one hand free to push two fingers into Lestrade's mouth, then suckling at his neck between little gasps of pleasure whenever Lestrade's tongue circled and fluttered around his fingers. John tilted his hips forward to rub his erection against Lestrade's, and then the doctor moved his slick fingers down to slip under the waist of Lestrade's trousers, grunting when he felt the wet slit of his cock.

Lestrade decided to slow things down-- overruling his leaking cock. He grabbed John's wrists again, pinning his arms out like butterfly wings against the wall. "I want to see you. I'm taking off your clothes now."

John's jumper and shirt were off before he could speak, and Lestrade glanced down then up again. John paused, then nodded and closed his eyes. And immediately Lestrade was gently fingering the scars, licking them, rubbing his cheek into the tender, paper thin skin, pulling back once, when he heard John's breath catch. The man was shivering, not with cold, but with the sudden release of a year of pent up shame and hiding. Lestrade let go of John's arms and the doctor's hands immediately flew into the copper's thick short hair, tugging and gasping when Lestrade's tongue hit a sensitive, not-quite-healed patch of skin. Lestrade paused, blowing cool air over the scar and touching it once more, more gently, with his lips.

"You're gorgeous," whispered Lestrade, and felt a sudden intake of breath and a shudder move through the doctor.

Finally, Lestrade moved his attention away from the scars and gashes and began to flutter his tongue against John's nipples, moving back and forth, tasting the hardening pink nubs, and feeling John press his hips forward again--this time more urgently.

John's hands began fumbling at the copper's zip, the heat of the smaller man's body engulfing Lestrade.

Lestrade grabbed John's hands and twisted them behind his back, as roughly as he would handle a suspect resisting arrest, and held his gaze again before demanding, "Multiple choice, Dr. Watson. What do you _really_ want?" Lestrade slid his tongue into John's mouth, which had fallen open in surprise. Lestrade kissed him relentlessly, mercilessly until he felt John swaying, gasping for oxygen.

While the doctor panted, heart thrumming, Lestrade laid out the choices in a whisper. "Do you want me to fuck you? Do you want me to walk away? Do you want me on my knees with your cock in my mouth?"

Still breathless, John slowly pulled his hands from Lestrade's grip and placed them on the D.I.'s square shoulders, pressing down, forcing Lestrade to his knees. Lestrade grinned and rubbed his palms against John's hips, breathing hot and eager into the space between his thighs, mouth tracing the line of John's erection beneath thick blue denim until John flicked the button of his jeans open and pulled down the zip. Lestrade looked up, inhaling the scent, mouth watering, anticipating the taste, the velvet smooth texture of John's cock, the warm bitterness that would fill his mouth. God, he wanted this. Didn't know how much he'd wanted it until just now. But he had to let John do it--let John remain in control. So Lestrade closed his eyes and waited.

John's small, powerful hands were suddenly on Lestrade, tipping his head forward, pulling his jaw down. John's fingers played in Lestrade's mouth and Lestrade nipped at them, sucked them, tasted the saltiness, yearned for more. John's cock slid in to replace his fingers and Lestrade moaned with pleasure as he opened his throat to take in the full length.

The night air and the musk of his partner filled Lestrade's nostrils. John's hands tangled and twisted in Lestrade's short hair as he fucked his mouth slowly, letting out sharp, short groans and filthy curses when Lestrade sucked and hummed and tightened his lips, pulling John's jeans and boxers down so he could massage his perineum. There was a moment when John was thrusting so desperately Lestrade was afraid he would have to pull away--afraid he was going to choke--but suddenly John stopped and stretched his hands above his head, pressing his arms and shoulders against the wall, groaning with pleasure, letting Lestrade set the pace to the finish.

Lestrade's cheeks went concave and saliva dripped down his chin as he swirled his tongue around John Watson's cock one last time. Lestrade's hands cupped the doctor's peach of an arse and squeezed through his shuddering climax.

Now Lestrade swallowed down the need and want held at bay for months. A hot, bitter stream of desire, finally fulfilled. A release of loneliness, of every miserable day John had spent in fear or hopelessness, every night he'd spent wondering if anyone would ever want him again. So many wounds--mind and body. Why would anyone want him?

Lestrade swallowed one last time, wiped his face against the hem of his shirt and leaned his cheek against John's hip, feeling the rolling aftershocks coursing through his body. John was barely coherent, just mumbling, "Oh god, oh god, yes, god, Jesus God, thank you, thank you." Lestrade reached down into his own trousers to quickly finish himself off, with a few short gasps into the warm flesh of John's thigh.

After a few more minutes, they dressed themselves in silence, stealing wary glances at each other. Finally, as they stepped back into the street to resume their walk to the Tube, John threw Lestrade a half smile--eyes (yeah, those devastating eyes) laughing--and asked, "Are we supposed to talk about what the fuck that was?"

Lestrade looked straight ahead. He didn't like to speculate, and he didn't know the answer to the question at this moment. So he shook his head, half smiled himself, and said, "Nah. We're gonna pretend it didn't happen, until we want it to happen again. Okay?"

John nodded, shoulders back, full grin this time. "Seems like a plan."

 

 


End file.
